


victorious

by ladyknightley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, aka victoire's birthday, and the 2nd anniversary of the battle of hogwarts, but it's mostly about those three brothers and how they're dealing in the aftermath of the war, they're all in here tbh, weasleys galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightley/pseuds/ladyknightley
Summary: It's the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and Bill and Fleur have a name for their beautiful new daughter. And it's not everyone's cup of tea.





	victorious

**Author's Note:**

> bit angsty, yeah?

The main thing that happens when a baby is born, George discovers, is tears. The baby cries—the baby _howls_ —such a huge sound from such a tiny thing, and yeah, okay, maybe if you’d just been ripped from inside the only thing you’d ever known, you’d cry too. Fleur cries, but that’s also probably allowed, because she was the one who was ripped apart. And Bill cries, probably because Fleur has a grip like a basilisk. That’s maybe legitimate, too.

But everyone, _everyone_ else cries, crowded around the hospital bed, beaming down at Fleur, beautiful Madonna with her precious infant, and George just _can’t_. He hasn’t cried since the day of Fred’s funeral, when he cried enough for a lifetime. Literally. There is nothing that could possibly be worse than that day, nothing else that will ever be deserving of tears. So for almost two years, he hasn’t cried. It’s simple.

His is the only dry eye as the baby is passed around. Mum and Charlie, who will weep for England at the drop of a hat, have been at it since they were allowed in to meet her. Others, like Hermione, keep pushing away the tears, clearly trying to pull themselves together and never quite managing it. As he watches, Ron pulls her in close, kissing her forehead so her eyes close, and yet more tears fall. And in the other corner, Percy and Dad are doing some kind of glasses-cleaning thing that fools no one, least of all when Dad puts a hand on Percy’s shoulder, which suddenly starts to shake. George looks away, feeling suddenly like a voyeur. The thing about not crying for two years is that when you see other people doing it, it feels oddly personal and maybe a bit shameful, like you’ve walked in on them in the bathroom.

Someone, Harry, maybe, asks about names, and an expectant silence fills the room. Fleur and Bill exchange looks, and Bill nods, stepping back. It is clear to everyone that this is Fleur’s day, and she basks in the attention, arranging the baby’s blanket just so. “We ’ad a name chosen,” she says slowly, “we were going to call her Marielle. But…we talked, earlier. We thought…” And she trails off, looking at her husband.

It’s obvious that something significant is coming. For a second, George is so certain that they’re going to call the child Fred he almost laughs, but instead pinches the inside of his elbow and looks at the ground, refusing to look at Bill as he speaks. “Neither of us believe in…I don’t know what you’d call it. Cosmic signs. Divine intervention. But we thought…we thought, it _cannot_ be a coincidence that she was born today. Two years after…well, you know. But she’s going to grow up with all this behind her. She’ll be safe and happy and whole. So…”

Fleur speaks again, now. “I always wanted ’er to ’ave a French name, to mark that part of ’er heritage. And so we shall call her Victoire.” Someone gives the tiniest gasp. “It is, ’ow you say, Victoria. But it is also—”

“Victory.”

Bill says it with such formality, and everyone responds as one, a low roar of approval. Words and voices can’t be distinguished, but it cannot be clearer: this is A Good Thing. George feels like he’s been hit by a Bludger. The roar of approval gets louder, suddenly, and he looks up to see Fleur looking at Ginny, reaching out to her, Ginny looking stunned—but pleased—and he realises that they must be asking if she would like to be Godmother, or maybe the middle-name, or maybe who the fuck knows what.

He doesn’t care about that, he cares about nothing except the anger rising and rising and rising, and he’s going to explode, going to punch someone, going to yell louder than the baby, the child, the _victory._ How could they? How _could_ they?

“George?” Ron’s voice sounds far away, and George can’t quite understand, at first, the look on his brother’s face. Then he gets it: confusion. Ron is _confused_ about why he might feel angry about this stupid decision his stupid brother has made. Now everyone else is looking at him, staring like he’s the misfit, the what-doesn’t-belong in this happy picture.

He can’t stand it.

He pushes back, marching out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The last thing he hears is a loud, indignant wail from the baby, and he can’t bring himself to feel even the slightest twinge of guilt about it. She has _everyone_ looking after her every need, soothing her, being there with her. He has no one—or at least, he doesn’t have the person he needs most.

So he might as well have no one.

* * *

He shuts himself in his room back at Mum and Dad’s, intending to ignore everyone for the next week or so until he feels marginally better about the whole situation. That lasts for the next, oh, forty-five minutes, until Ron arrives back.  

“Fuck off, Ron,” he says, when his brother lets himself in. He’s locked the door, but he _is_ an Auror. “I mean it. Fuck off, or I’ll curse the fucking door closed.”

“Then I’ll get Bill to come and blast it down. Cursebreaker, remember?”

“Bill’s a dick.”

“Bill’s a _dad_.” Ron’s so earnest, and it’s not meant to be a joke, but it sounds so silly that George almost grins, until he remembers that he’s really, really mad at his brother. Which one doesn’t really matter.

“Still a dick.”

“Whatever,” Ron dismisses this with a wave of a hand. “You need to go and apologise to him.”

George splutters. “ _Why_?”

“Because Bill’s a dick, but you’re a bigger dick.” George opens his mouth to make the obvious, juvenile comment—habit, more than anything—but Ron cuts him off. “ _No_ ,” he says, and George shrinks back, startled. Ron doesn’t get angry, often, but when he does, he means it. “You have to. I get it. You’re mad because they called her _victory_ , but, fucking hell, what else could they do?! Think about it. Poor kid’s _never_ going to have a birthday. In her entire fucking life. What the fuck were they going to call her? Tragedy? Funeral? Death?”

He almost snarls this last, breathing heavily, and George doesn’t know what surprises him more, the fact that Ron _gets it_ , or that he so clearly _doesn’t_. Victoire, victory, however you say it, it’s an insult to everyone who died, or who nearly did, or worse.

And it’s the truth. It’s what they were, ultimately. _Victorious_. Some victory.

Ron’s silent for a good few minutes, the only sound the gradual slowing and calming of his breathing. And then, very quietly, he says, “I don’t know if I like it. Victory…it just…it sounds _wrong_. But it’s not about me. It’s not even about Bill and Fleur, really. It’s about her. And it’s what she deserves, right?”

George sighs. “I guess.” The annoying thing about Ron, these days, is how often he’s right. Not that he’ll ever tell him that. He just gives him incremental salary rises every time he does something remotely helpful to him. At this rate, he’ll be earning more than the Minister of Magic by Christmas.

“Look,” Ron says bracingly. “Bill’s on his own now, he’s gone back to Shell Cottage to get some more clothes for Fleur. She needs to stay at the hospital a while longer—”

“Why?” George asks, his head shooting up. “Is there something wrong with her, or the baby?” The fear is sudden and all-consuming and takes him by surprise.

It appears to take Ron by surprise, too, but his voice is steady as he explains. “Apparently it’s standard procedure. New mothers and babies generally spend a couple of days in hospital, even if things have gone well, which they did. They’re both fine, but apparently fine is relative if you’ve just, y’know. Pushed a Quaffle out your—”

“ _Okay_.”

“So you’ll go and apologise to Bill?”

“ _Fine_.”

* * *

“That you, Gin?”

“…well, I guess it would be more insulting if you called me Percy, but—”

“Oh, it’s you.” The thing about Bill is that he’s always had this completely inscrutable tone of voice, where you’re never sure if his next sentence is going to be a declaration of eternal love, or an intention to murder your nearest and dearest. It kind of freaks George out.

“Can you hold this for a moment?” He doesn’t wait for a response, simply holding out something soft and yellow, and George accepts it, before realising it’s a baby’s outfit. It is the tiniest item of clothing he has ever seen.

He doesn’t realise he’s said this out loud until something in Bill seems to soften. “She’s so small. I thought I’d remembered from when you all were kids but…she’s _so small_.”

“Well…I guess you were smaller, then, too.” Bill grunts in response to this rather pathetic comment, going back to sifting through a bag positioned on the big armchair. Clearly not finding what he’s looking for, he shifts his attention to another bag, this one on the sofa. George looks around the living room, and realises there are two or three more bags dotted around the room.

“Now I know I’ve never had a kid myself, but I thought you were only supposed to pack _one_ hospital bag?”

“Oh, you know Fleur,” Bill says vaguely.

George snorts. “That makes sense. Gotta have the right outfit, yeah?”

“ _Watch it_ ,” says Bill, who was once savaged by a werewolf. “That’s my _wife_.”

George swallows, but holds his brother’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says. “And I’m sorry about earlier. Really sorry.”

Bill nods slowly. “I’m…I’m sorry we maybe sprung that on you,” he says. “To be fair, Fleur and I had only decided a few hours before. We thought it would be…well, we didn’t intend to be disrespectful, at any rate.”

George moves a bag and sinks down in the chair. Bill sits on the floor opposite him, and George can suddenly see how tired his brother looks. His brother’s a _dad_ now. How ridiculous! A laugh bubbles upside him, and he bites his cheek to make it go away.

“Y’know, when you were doing the announcement, I was _sure_ for a second that you were going to call her Fred,” he says instead.

“A girl named Fred?”

“Fredericka’s nice.”

Bill looks at him sceptically, before grinning. “Freda.”

“Frederbelle.”

“Fredette.”

George snorts. “I’m glad you didn’t.” A pause. “I think Victoria’s a nice name. Even Victoire sounds okay. If you’re, y’know, _French_.” He crosses his eyes as he says this, making it clear it’s a joke. “But victory? I just don’t know…” He looks at his brother, willing him to understand how much this bit _isn’t_ a joke.

Bill looks away first, closing his eyes, and it takes him so long to respond that George actually wonders if he’s fallen asleep. It wouldn’t exactly be undeserved, given his past twenty four hours. But then, eventually, he says something.

“I miss Fred,” he says simply. “I know you are the last person I need to explain that better to. I know you, more than any of us, _get it_. But I miss Fred every single day. Everyone says ‘oh, but we won, in the end!’ but it doesn’t feel like a win, when I think of him. Every time I look at little Teddy Lupin, it doesn’t feel like we won. You know?” George nods. Of course he knows. “Do you want to know what I think, though?”

George braces himself for some bullshit about how Fred’s looking down on them, about how Fred would want everyone to move on and be happy, George in particular, blah blah blah. He’s more than heard it all before, and he doesn’t need to hear it again. Bill’s an eldest child, though. He’ll tell you anyway.

“I think that every day the rest of us are still here is a victory. Every time you don’t give up, give in, you win. Every day—every hour, if that’s what it takes. And I need her to know that sometimes, just existing is a victory. Never mind anything else. Just living—that’s the victory. That’s the win.”

“She will.” George says this with more certainty than he’s ever said anything in his life, and he realises how much he means it as the words tumble out. “She will know all that. Because I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her about Fred, but I’ll tell her that first. Because you’re right.”

Sometimes eldest siblings know what they’re talking about. (But only sometimes.)

Bill reaches over, claps him on the back, then leaves his hand there. “Thanks, kid,” he says, somewhat hoarsely.

“And then I’ll tell her where we keep the good dungbombs.” Bill snorts with laughter, and maybe a few tears come out too, and maybe that’s why George maybe—maybe—lets one fall too.

**Author's Note:**

> *pokes account* IT LIVES! I haven't written anything in so long but yesterday was the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and I wanted to write something, so I did and actually liked it (gasp). Then I edited it and hated it. But I posted it anyway, because I'm trying to be braver. And...some people liked it? So, I guess, here it is now. I'm 50/50 on it today. But I'm working on it. And I promise not to take so long in writing something else new, too.


End file.
